


Remembrance

by PaP



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (IDW Comics), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Animal Traits, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Good Intentions, M/M, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Older Characters, Older Man/Younger Woman, One-Sided Attraction, Or Is It?, Or not, Self-Denial, Self-Destruction, Speciesism, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Team Feels, Team Fluff, Team as Family, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wolf Instincts, paving the road to heck and all that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:53:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27595076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaP/pseuds/PaP
Summary: Ephemeral beauty, clouding a lens. How a man must survive, and live with himself, at the same time.
Relationships: Claire Voyance/Whisper the Wolf, Diamond Cutters/Each Other In An Overall Spiritual Sort Of Way I Guess, Mimic/Slinger the Ocelot, Mimic/Whisper the Wolf, Tangle the Lemur/Whisper the Wolf
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	1. RIP - the funeral of a grand delusion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArmIa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmIa/gifts).



“H’lo.”

Mimic looks up from his knife, expression dispassionate. “Hello,” he drawls in his smooth, bittersweet voice, quiet, amiably lethal.

“S’pretty, out here, at this time.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Less like a base.”

“The sunset does add a certain… ambience.”

They maintain eye contact, cheerfully haunted blue slits meeting his suspicious moonlit pools without fear.

“Does the ocean comfort you?”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“Do you miss it? Like, you’re meeting family. S’home.”

“I don’t have a ‘family’ and I am highly adaptable, thus I don’t have a singular ‘home’ to return to.”

“But you have us.”

“This base is not my home. The Diamond Cutters are not my family.”

Silence, for a while, in which they stare.

“Do you miss it?”

“The sea? It’s right on our doorstep.”

“No. Being… submerged, where you come from.”

“Sometimes. But it’s not like I’m homesick.”

“Why don’t you swim?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“S’just you keep saying the sun and artificial lighting dry you out. Claire offers you ointments that smell funny but you never smell like those, so I know you don’t use them. Doesn’t the saltwater help?”

“…I swim.”

“Oh? Never seen you–”

“It’s private.”

“Oh. As in… intimate?”

“Whisper, you’re being a nuisance.”

She giggles.

He glares.

“Aw.”

“Don’t.”

“S’cute.”

“It really isn’t.”

“It kinda is. S’sweet.”

“You probed. You’re projecting. Don’t ‘aw’ me ever again. I’m deadly, not darling.”

“Then… I’m cute n’sweet, a darling?”

“…Whisper.”

She grins down at him, standing over his hiding place, casting him in her shadow. Her ears are partway lowered, a polite display of friendly intentions, and her tail is wagging. She’s like that with every member of the Diamond Cutters. Always willing to lick dirty wounds clean and nuzzle the lines out of tired cheeks. But her grin gradually fades away.

“What is it, now?” he mutters, sighing, patience frayed.

“Lonely?”

Surprised, he hesitates before answering, “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I come here to be alone – obviously. Just tell me, what do you want? You’re bothering me.”

“Sorry. Don’t mean to. I just wanna get closer to you, that’s all. Like I am with them.”

“I’m not like the others, Whisper.”

“I know.” She manages a tiny, fragile smile. “S’part of why I like you so much.”

His face, sensual yet reserved, suddenly opens with blatant surprise, then disbelief.

“Can I sit with you?”

“Pardon?”

“Sit. With you. Can I?”

He then frowns, albeit less severely than his usual frowns tend to be. “I’m not stupid, don’t enunciate.”

“Sorry.” She raises her large, clawed hands, a peacekeeping gesture, grinning. “Um. But I was thinking–”

“Oh, joy.”

“–maybe, just for a little while, it’d be nice for you. To sit here and have this feel like, uh… something different.”

“How eloquent. Different from what? I’m not lonely. If anything, this is peaceful, for me. A peace you’re disturbing with your sudden verbosity.”

“But you’re so alone.”

“Yes, and?”

“It worries me.”

He hesitates on a biting retort about how tedious she’s being, stalled more by the sympathy in her cold eyes and twitching nose, than in her bluntly spoken words.

“The others always try to include you, and I know Smithy and Slinger can be really loud, and Claire’s always trying to mother you, but… I think we get along okay. Mostly.”

“You’re concerned for me?” he murmurs, far more gently than he’s used to when addressing anyone.

“Yeah. We’re friends, Mimic, remember?”

A dangerous warmth fills his cold blood, just then. It feels eerily akin to affection and gratitude. "You've never called me that, before - friend."

"Oh, well, I'm calling you that, now." She nods gently. "Friend."

"...You're very strange."

"Yeah." The wolf stands there, wagging her tail, sniffing his air.

He buries any evidence of his treacherous feelings best he can under a roll of his eyes and a melodramatic scoff. “You’re insufferable.”

“Heh… yeah,” she admits, lowering her hands to her sides.

“You’re bothering me on a whim.”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“Even for me? Whisper, you mean well, but don’t bother. I’m fine as I am. I don’t need your company. I don't need friends."

"That makes you sound lame."

"You know just how not-lame I really am."

“Okay. Would you…?” She looks about, chuffs softly, then refocuses on him. “Like it, though?"

"Like what?"

"If I sat with you, a while."

He chokes on a breath, then quickly turns away, ostensibly busying himself again with his knife, which he likes to admire sinisterly when not on duty. It usually works, keeping the others off his back long enough for him to relax a little. But she is an odd one.

She waits, patient, gentle, flexing her fingers anxiously, bracing herself to be turned away, even more harshly.

“For a little while…”

She swallows audibly.

“I’ll not mind it.”

Blue eyes widen.

“I’ll tolerate you. For a tad longer."

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so excited, taking scraps from strangers.”

“Mimic, you’re not a stranger, to me.”

He clears his throat, saying nothing.

“C’mon.” She laughs softly, relieved, moving gracefully to sit, lowering herself beside him. “How long have we known each other? Years, by now.”

Despite the comfort of his knife in his lap, and the sea stretched out before them, he steals a glance at her.

“Why don’t you believe me when I call you friend?”

“I don’t need friends. I already said that. I like the sound of my voice but repetition, not so much."

She’s perching on the edge, her muscular and more ruggedly designed legs dangling beside his slender, graceful alternatives, boots swinging back and forth. A salty breeze stirs her fur, her ears, as it stirs his tentacles.

He thinks she’s beautiful. Not for the first time.

“Okay, Mimic. But you’ve got us, anyway.”

“Thanks.” His smooth, dark brow arches. Not in response to her, but in response to himself.

“I’m not here ‘cause I gotta be. Don’t have to sit with you.”

“Yes, it’s because you pity me. Seeing how I prefer to be by myself – alone.”

“But you’re not lonely. You’re… interesting.”

He discretely tightens his hold on the hilt of his knife, not aggressively, but because he felt it slip from his suddenly forgetful, negligent fingers. It would be unfortunate if it fell into the sea, as he’d have to dive after it and embarrass himself before her, of all people, in this moment, of all their moments.

“I like that about you. Makes me want to know you better.”

“…Better?”

“Yeah. After all these years, you're still... vague."

He opens and shuts his beak. Produces a clacking sound. Makes himself feel like a parrot.

“S'okay, I guess. But still. It'd be nice, y'know, if you'd... talk about yourself, more."

He has to say something. This silence is incriminating.

She turns and looks at him, her eyes shut, yet she sees clearly. Smirks. “Relax. I’m not putting you on the spot. Maybe another time?"

“Oh, I’m perfectly relaxed,” he purrs in another tone, some mocking blend of dismissal and amusement, utilizing his acting skills to appear unaffected, even as the pigments of his skin go haywire and he has to manually reset them to his preferred shade so as not to blush the octopus equivalent. “Is that it?”

“Huh?”

“Do you really think I’d be rattled by your little crush on me, sniper, mm?”

“What?”

“It’s quite understandable. I’m pretty. I'm enigmatic. I'm dangerous."

“Well… uh…”

“Aren’t I?”

“You… are, but… I wasn’t…”

“Anyway.” Having overcome, he smiles a curved, hooked smile at her. “I’m not interested.” Returns once more to admiring his polished, sharpened blade, so similar to his handsome beak. “Sorry.”

Now she changes colours, her tanned snout flooding with heat and a rosy hue as her eyes peel open. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Mmhm.”

“Eew.”

At this, he looks up, annoyed by how offended her blunt rejection has made him feel, when he had intended to disarm her. “Excuse me?”

“Eew," she repeats, in exactly the same manner.

“I’m not ‘eew’."

“You’re so eew.”

"Screw you."

"No, thanks."

He gapes at her, the one to be disarmed.

Whisper is blushing, turning her handsome snout aside to hide some of it, giggling, running her claws through her long, silky hair, loosened, tumbling down to her shoulders, windswept. “Mimic, you’re way too old.”

"O-old?!"

"Yeah."

"...I would throw you into the sea if I weren’t such a gentleman.”

“You’d drop your knife if you tried. I'm very heavy."

"I know. I've carried your ass to safety before, you... grrmph."

"I like you, though, Mimic. I've told you that before. You always get funny when I say it."

He stutters, then sneers at her while admiring the natural sheen of her winter coat, the curve of her eye-tooth. But he lacks any clever return, and only manages to drone, “You’re free to go away anytime,” with the conviction of someone who doesn’t really mean what they’re saying.

“Yeah.”

He waits.

She remains.

“Fine, fine.”

They lapse into an unusual sort of companionable silence.

“Mimic.”

He sighs. “Whisper.”

"I love them. All of them. I think of them as our family. Even if you don't feel like you're a part of it... we do."

"Why are you telling me this mush?"

"Don't laugh."

"I don't generally do that."

"I've been dreaming about death, lately."

"Mine?"

"Theirs. You and I are the survivors. Like we're... cursed, somehow."

"That's ridiculous."

"It's comforting, though, having you with me, in my dreams. And I keep wanting to tell you how I feel, but..."

He unknowingly lays a hand over his own breast, as if to calm himself, eyes boring into her.

“You’re my favourite Diamond Cutter.”

He feels his knife escape his fingers, sliding down the length of his thigh, falling freely, plummeting seaward.

She tilts her head in that infuriatingly cute way of hers as the splash alerts her, smiling an awkward, shy smile, rendered clumsily between her fangs. “Oops. Sorry."

“…What?”

“Your knife. The sea. It fell in."

“…Shit.”

“If you hurry, you’ll reach it before it sinks to the bottom.”

He bristles, his tentacles writhing with embarrassment, the pigments of his skin flushed.

“Or I can-”

“No. I’ll get it myself.”

She observes him fuming as his beloved knife descends.

He says nothing for some time.

Her ears press flat to her head and she whines quietly.

“What?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

"I've upset you. Didn't mean to. I tease you, but s'just... playful. Your knife..."

He grunts, folding his arms over his soft, elastic breast, a distinctly moody gesture. “It’s fine. I’ll get my knife back when I feel like it.”

“Mimic… if you really hate having me here, I’ll go.”

“I already permitted you to stay. Stop fretting. If I hated being around you that much, you'd not be around me at all."

“Yes. S’good, because I want to stay.”

He blinks, returning to her face.

“Not because I fancy you.” She clears her throat delicately. “Because I don’t. But I like you.”

“You’re really endearing yourself to me thus far.”

She grins again, baring her impressive fangs in her shy, awkward way.

He hears himself chuckle, even as he feels his throat tighten, warmth consuming the innards of his bosom, spreading across the skin of his face, an icy stone settling low in his belly.

“Should’ve brought snacks.”

“Not the worst idea you’ve had, Diamond Cutter.” He finally looks away.

She makes an affectionate sound, leaning over to press against his shoulder with her cold, wet nose, nuzzling at his rubbery flesh.

They sit on the edge, overlooking the ocean, their reflections rippling together.

"Would you, um... tell me more? About yourself, I mean."

He feels her head settle against him and opens his beak to speak, then can't.

"...Mimic?"

His voice is suddenly gone.


	2. Nostalgia or toothache

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mimic tells himself, speaking to his reflection in the lazily rippling sea like a pane of glass crumbling and reforming and crumbling unto sanity and madness, bringing him into clarity only to destroy him again. “Don’t settle. This isn’t…”

Whisper left fifteen minutes ago, unable to coax even a lie.

He’s alone with himself.

She’d left him disappointed and hurt, indicated by the tail between her legs, the ears flat against her skull, the way she said not to stay out too late, because the winter nights are so cold out at sea.

As if he didn’t know that.

She’s gone and she left him and he’s alone with himself, indulging in a bad habit of talking to the one whose judgment is the least important.

“…I couldn’t even lie.”

The knife is still down there.

* * *

“You’re a wolf, not a puppy dog,” Mimic drawls into his coffee mug, the first to break the pause in conversation after a long, hard day and another battle fought without killing them all.

It’s just another experience of their shared years, an experience that the romantics would claim to draw them more intricately - deeper - into one another’s emotional wellsprings, as comradery is the more socially desirable outcome of their shared trauma. And if asked, or given time to think too hard about it, they’d be expected to claim unanimously that it’s not about the money, it started by being all about the cause, and ends with each other, even as mercenaries cutting a profit.

He keeps his beak downcast so as to hide his smirk. “Did you know that?”

“Aw, that’s just some speciesist bullshit,” Slinger speaks up, as anticipated, scoffing his sexy scoff. “You just do your best to stir shit ’cause you’re hoping she’ll top you for it.”

“Eew.”

That smirk deepens, turning more crooked.

"What?" A theatrical gasp, hand to the breast. "You don't want some of that?"

“He’s too old.” Fangs catch the light. “I told him.”

“Oooh!” A bony elbow jabs a boneless side. “Finally made your move, old man?”

“Go to hell.”

“Don’t be crass, you lot,” remarks a deep, fatherly voice from the sagging armchair, announcing that Smithy has awoken from his fatigue-and-food-induced nap and has been awake for some minutes, now, just enjoying his people, a makeshift pride, eyes closed, smile mild.

A handsome pout. “Sorry, daddy.”

A rumbling chuckle, a blush. “Don’t call me that.”

Ostensibly, Mimic is scowling in relaxed, pretty annoyance above the steaming brim as Slinger tugs gently, playfully, on a limb, having twirled the tapering tentacle flirtatiously about a finger, an entire hand, the length of his lithely muscular arm over the course of a couple hours without being told to fuck off, taking advantage of how the octopus is never truly motionless, his mane rubbery and strong, yet gentle as it shifts and traces its environment, including the ocelot himself, seated alongside, within fondling range and encouraging of it.

“And it’s a moot point,” Claire speaks up, under Whisper’s nuzzling nose, cold and wet and mutely demanding attention, given with grace and generosity. “We already collectively imagined what we’d be like, what we’d do, if we all acted our species.”

“Ah, quite right,” Smithy says with a stretch within the tight, sinking embrace of his favourite chair. “And we’ve already agreed it would be terrible, mm?”

“Yeah. Jesus.”

The octopus’ shifting, writhing suckers adhere despite the ocelot’s velvety fur breaking some of the surface tension between Mimic’s unconsciously wondering touch and Slinger’s buried skin, a shadowy tentacle creeping slow and cold and eldritch over a mammalian shoulder, beginning to trace a pectoral, now, sinuously intimate.

“You’d eat us all, daddy.” Slinger grins, fanged.

Smithy sighs, trying his best to look disapproving. "All of you except for Claire."

"You're not supposed to have favourites, ya know."

Winks. "I know."

Mimic rolls his moonlit pools for eyes.

Whisper grins, a portrait of affection framed by fangs. She is far too large to sit on Claire’s lap, but does so anyway, enjoying nimble hands that rub at aches in back muscles, the wolf’s wagging tail softly slapping the howler monkey’s blushing cheek, necessitating that Claire sometimes gently brush Whisper’s endearingly thoughtlessly happy gesture aside, spitting strands of loose biscotti fur out of soft lips to contribute to the state of the old, rescued sofa, another remnant of the world before this war ravaged it.

“I’d escape.”

“’Course you would.” Slinger nips at Mimic’s touch as the tentacle probes his chin like a pestering finger. “And I’d chase you, anyway.”

“You’d follow me into the sea and drown in minutes.”

"Would you eat my body?"

"Not even if I was starving to death."

"Gentlemen, this is a grim topic."

"Sorry, daddy."

The silence returns.

Smithy gradually falls back to sleep.

Brushing Whisper’s wagging tail aside with motherly patience yet again, Claire pulls another biscotti hair out of her mouth and delicately drops it onto the stained, scuffed arm of the couch, adding to the relic of a time years ago, before they met and fell in love over their shared years since then. Unanimously, they’d be expected to say, if asked.

They're being observed, over the raised coffee mug.

Whisper has never sat on Mimic’s lap. She’s crawled over Smithy’s broad chest and licked his face, she’s pushed her snout under Slinger’s handsome jaw and threatened to chew on his scarf, and she always forgets how small Claire is.

The octopus’ smirk slowly fades away, leaving his beak a polished, curved bone lacking anything more defining than a predator’s subtle expression of the potential to hurt and kill, even when animated as peacefully as this.

Whisper turns again, nosing Claire’s forehead from atop her slender, indulgent lap.

“Here?” The first word in minutes, nimble fingers probing a place in the shapely plane of the wolf’s back.

A silent nod.

The howler monkey applies more pressure, there.

Mimic sees Whisper wince, that tail still wagging.

“You’re full of knots.”

“Mmhm.”

A scowl into the mug, downcast.

"You're sulking."

“I don’t even like coffee,” comes out quiet and petulant, an utterance of an inward tantrum cast out, under the breath, no better for being in such poor disguise.

“I’ll finish it for ya.”

“No.”

“Tch. Grumpy bitch.”

“I could so easily choke you.”

Slinger plays with Mimic’s tentacle, smiling feline satisfaction, eyes assessing a beautiful man who is so distant, yet so close. “I hope you do.”

Smithy snores, too asleep to rebuke.

“You’re disgusting.”

“The word you’re looking for is-”

A tentacle clamping over the mouth shuts the ocelot up, leaving him giggling, muffled.

“That’s somewhat of an improvement,” the octopus drawls, taking a moody sip.

Claire makes another of her docile sounds, massaging Whisper’s back with servile contentment.

Mimic isn't smiling, even as Slinger's sandpapery tongue slips free.


	3. This picture, imperfect

“Knock, knock.”

The door is open, which is unusual. An invitation, doubtfully. But every defined action is a chance taken.

Mimic is splayed over his belly and chest, paging through a scuffed book he discovered in the ruin of a store during a city run earlier that week, propped now upon his pillow and spread open below his beak, which idly chews at nothing.

Slinger feels a stirring in his loins, a stirring in his breast, and an anxious ache which he keeps hidden deep inside. “Hi, beautiful.”

The octopus was never one for luxuries and his living quarters reflect that. To decorate is to make this a home, and he has no home.

“Uh, hello.”

“I heard you.”

“Oh, that’s cute,” says the handsome ocelot, leaning against the open doorway that his nimble body occupies. “So, you were just ignoring me.”

“As usual.”

“Tch. Rude.”

“I know.” Mimic’s shoulders and back, bare beneath a curtain of writhing, wandering tentacles, rise and fall subtly, steadily as he breathes. His suckers explore the cramped expanse of his hard, sparse bunk, adhering to the rough bedding, the metal frame, the pages of his book before being gently shooed away, releasing to venture further, or retreat back to his body. “I’m awful.”

“Good thing you’re hot, or that’d hurt my feelings.”

“The heartache would only be your fault.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s as if you forget how things are, every time you come slinking over to bother me like this."

"Oh, okay. And how are things?"

"I’m a bitch, and you’re annoying.”

“But I’m cute, too.”

A chuckle, soft and cold.

“Heh. Yeah. Funny how I keep hoping you’ll suddenly be nice to me, sometime. It’s my pretty face, see.”

“Hilarious.”

“I can hold out. I figure you’ve fallen victim to my charms by now. Just waiting on you to finally admit it to yourself, eh?”

“Mm. Unlikely.”

“Still, a guy can hope.”

“Yes, you’re stubborn and naïve, like that.”

“If you say so.” Slinger smirks, so as to avoid a wince, eyes on Mimic from behind. “Can I come in?”

“I suppose.”

He saunters into the dim, cool room. Sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand down dark, rubbery skin, giggling as tentacles envelop his arm like a sea anemone entrapping a fish.

The octopus is silent and otherwise seems completely disinterested.

“Whatcha reading, anyway?”

“A religious text.”

“Ah. Guilty conscience?”

“Not really. It’s one of the old, dead faiths, from an extinct civilization rumoured to have sunk into the ocean thousands of years ago.”

“And you can read all that?”

“It’s been translated from ancient tongues into something a little more contemporary, obviously. I’m clever and immensely talented, but here I must concede a shortcoming, I’m afraid.”

“’Least you’ve got a fine ass.”

“True.”

“Not gonna summon some, like, bigass underwater god, are ya?”

“Tempting.”

The ocelot chuckles, encouraged by the banter.

“Anyway,” Mimic drawls, turning a page, brushing a tentacle aside. “What do you want?”

“Why are you asking?” Slinger bends, nuzzling the shifting mass, voice dipping seductively as he murmurs against the other man’s flesh, “You already know.”

The octopus shivers.

The ocelot smirks.

“Sex.”

“What a surprise, huh? Well! Now that that’s outta the way.”

Mimic grunts as a hand slaps his rear playfully, stirring muscle.

“You wanna fuck?” Slinger caresses the place he’d just struck.

“Not right now.”

His expression cannot be seen from this angle as it darkens. “Okay. Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour?"

"Not feeling it, sorry."

"No problem. You want a massage first? Foreplay?”

“No.”

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

“You sure?”

“I’m being quite clear about it. Besides, I'm at a particularly riveting chapter.”

“Okay. Shoot."

A page is turned.

"Might as well just say it, I guess."

"Say what?"

"I don’t mean to be a pain, Mimic, but I, uh… I've been thinking."

"Uh-oh. At this rate, you'll give me a headache, soon enou-"

"I miss you.”

Muscles tighten, tentacles squirming more urgently. "What?"

“Don’t freak out. It’s not–”

“Slinger.”

“Mimic, I was just–”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

The ocelot quickly redirects some of the accusation, the blame, attempting a casual, suave tone. “C’mon. It’s been weeks. You’re feeling the pinch, too.”

The octopus forces himself to seem calm. Mildly shakes his head, scattering tentacles like luscious, dark tresses of hair, effecting a level tone. “Not really.”

“What, not even a little?”

“Nope.” That beak, curved and cruel, makes a very fleshy popping sound at the end of the word, as if gifted with lips that can kiss.

Silence, for a time.

“Mimic,” one man begins tentatively, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something else.”

“Then ask,” mutters the other. “Might as well just piss all over everything, while you're at it.”

“Fine. Are you okay?”

Eyes flutter shut with annoyance and something more treacherous than that. “I’m fine, Slinger.” Something vulnerable.

“You, um… It’s just that you keep saying no. But we had such fun and I guess I’m a little… confused.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t say ‘worried,’ Slinger”

“C’mon, Mimic, don’t be sassy with me right now. I’m serious.”

“And I’m not voracious, sexually speaking. Never have been. I just haven’t been in the mood for a while. Get over it. Fuck somebody else, jerk yourself off, whatever it takes not to be a nuisance.”

“Sure, but…” Hesitation.

"But?"

"These past weeks of nothing. Nothing more than a little touching. Not even cuddling, just, like… less than that. Outside of battle, you don't touch me at all, except for your tentacles, and I'm not even sure that counts since they touch everybody and everything.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you like to cuddle in private, and hold hands out in public?”

“God, you’re such an asshole. Are you even listening to me? Actually listening?”

“You’re being stupid, Slinger.”

“Well, fine. I can miss the sex, but yeah, maybe I was kinda hoping–”

“Casual.”

“Mimic–”

“We’re casual.”

“I know, but–”

“I’m not the affectionate kind. Casual, remember?"

"Goddamn."

"Casual. That was something we both agreed upon way, way back. Don’t forget it.”

“Casual doesn’t mean frigid,” the ocelot blurts out, and immediately regrets it.

Slowly, Mimic turns, eyes open, barely. They’re lethal slits.

“Shit. Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Get out.”

“It's just this has been the longest it's ever been, for us, and you won’t even put your hands on me unless you have to, and those fucking tentacles of yours are the only parts of you that don’t seem afraid of–"

“Leave.”

“Sorry.” Slinger withdraws, Mimic’s tentacles releasing the ocelot’s arm, and he stumbles away from the octopus’ bed. “Sorry! Goddammit.”

“For god’s sake, man, are you crying?”

"Hmm. Nah."

“Just…” With a snort of disgust, Mimic returns to his book, leaving Slinger pawing at his eyes. “Go away. Jesus.”

"Fuck it! One last thing. Get it outta the way, then I'll go."

"Ugh."

"You did, um, enjoy it… the last time we… And every time… we… Right?"

Silence.

"You enjoyed us, right?”

"‘Us’?"

"You and me!"

"There is no ‘us,’ so I'm assuming you're specifically referring to ‘us’ having sex together, of course."

Bristling with hurt and anger at this rejection, the secretive ocelot still attempts a casual, suave tone. "Uh. Right. Only that, sure! What else is there, right? That’s all it really ever was, anyways. Casual as fuck."

“Yes, and the sex was enjoyable. You were always attentive. You have skills and technique I rather liked. You're flexible, your fur’s soft and clean, and you smell good. You're far from the worst I've ever had." The octopus hums softly. "But, after today, I’m not sure I’ll ever let you fuck me, again. You’ve been grossly pathetic.”

"I meant no harm." Slinger scoffs, as if discarding the insult as easily as a shrug would discard an anxious thought. "A man has needs and I thought maybe you'd have needs, too.”

"I am under no obligation to take care of you."

“Of course not, jackass. Don't worry. I won't bother you with it, again."

"Oh, don't be so petulant."

"I'm not. I'm cool as a cucumber. I've got options."

"Good."

"We're casual, sweetheart. I won't forget."

"Casual, yes. Which amounts to nothing.”

The ocelot shuts his mouth.

“We’re nothing to each other."

A shaky exhale. "Now why'd you have to go and tell me that?"

"Because it's true. And you're not the only one who's had the wrong idea of me for god knows how long."

"Oh, so I guess we all just care more about you than you care about us."

"Exactly."

"Bet you care a helluva lot more than you let on, though."

"Don't count on it." Slowly, the octopus turns and looks back at Slinger from over a dark, slender shoulder, beak churning as if in deep, mocking thought, when really, Mimic is checking to see what the ocelot’s reaction really is. Moonlit pools find they cannot, however. It’s impossible even for this fluent reader of bodily language to determine what that facial expression is conveying, because there is nothing conveyed.

The silence lingers.

The octopus feels increasingly uneasy. “Slinger?”

“I hear ya.” The marksman is a blank portrait, beautiful and well-maintained. “I heard."

"Are you upset?"

"Why would I be? It’s cool, Mimic. No problems here.”

The infiltrator clears his throat, returning to his book without further comment, just then. Flushed.

"I'm fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried. You can go, now. Close the door on your way out, please, I was negligent.”

“Sure thing. I’ll go and see what daddy’s up to. He’s comfy.”

A stab of something akin to jealousy.

"Hell, Claire gives the best hugs, and Whisper-"

“Oh, fuck off, would you.”

“I guess I can.” Slinger suddenly grins, impeccable, wiggling his brows at Mimic’s shapely back, trying too hard to seem unaffected by rejection, still hopeful to salvage some sort of respect and affection from the octopus, even whilst lashing out and causing hurt that the ocelot doesn't fully understand. “Since you asked me so nicely.” Can't quite decide on being playful or petty, veers from one to the other, settles on a bittersweet in-between.

Mimic scoffs, tossing a tentacle over the same shoulder. “Whatever.” He doesn't know whether or not to be relieved. He's a pretender, but this other man is as enigmatic as the darkest depths of the ocean. Uncharted. And capable of being just as crushing and cruel.

“Well, I’m gonna head off, then. Have fun with your book.”

“One last thing,” the octopus hears himself say, and his voice is soft.

“Mm?” The ocelot pauses in the doorway.

“Try not to be so stupid, again.”

He certainly feels foolish enough.

“You deserve better than–” Mimic stops himself from going so far as to admit the rest of that thought out loud.

A chuckle. “Alrighty, then.”

“Thanks.”

“No summoning ancient sea gods while I’m gone, ya hear?” Slinger drawls, stepping out.

“I’ll try not to give in to the urge.”

“Nifty. Catch ya later, then.”

“Mmhm."

Another moment of silence.

"You're still here."

“Sorry," mumbles the ocelot, sounding sincere, albeit strained. “I was a creep, earlier. Putting pressure on you, like that. I’ve got more dignity and class, than that, and it wasn’t fair to you, putting you in that position. So, uh, I’m sorry, man.”

"It's fine. I could have been a little more... I should've nipped it in the bud, earlier."

"Nipped what in the bud? There's nothing to nip. Like you said. Like I said."

"Yes, right. Of course."

It seems like they're trying to convince each other of different things, as much as they try to convince themselves.

"Anyway. No means no. I should've let it go."

“It’s done, now. We can move on and never mention this, again.”

“Like it never happened.”

The octopus hears the door gently shut.

Slinger departs with his usual sauntering step, blinking back the urge to cry, smiling.

Mimic turns another page, expression softening, only able to judge himself.

* * *

"Boop,” Claire murmurs as she presses gently on that cold, wet, canine nose, as if pushing a button.

Whisper giggles, big and fearsome and unfittingly cute.

Slinger gazes into the room in stealth, not meaning to, crudely indulging himself despite it all, and because of it all. He had intended to pass this by, but it all made him pause, lingering, now, peering through the gap of the slightly ajar door.

Claire sits on her bunk with legs crossed, holding a scuffed old tin cup overflowing with herbal scents, a hand applied to Whisper’s snout, the wolf’s head occupying the howler monkey’s pillow alongside. There’s barely enough room for the both of them, but they don’t need the space, comfortable in letting their bodies touch. The closeness comes from years of saving one another's life, shivering in the rainfall and toiling under the sun, wading through toxic filth and picking at itching scabs until telling each other firmly not to aggravate those sores in case of any infections out in the field, sharing their rations and their bodily warmth, inventing stories, retelling dreams.

The ocelot smiles. There's a sort of feminine purity to the scene that he's never been able to have for himself, at least, not to such an intense extent. It's something deeper than masculine bravado, or the overall genderless eroticism of the entire lot of misfits that comprises the Diamond Cutters. The women haven’t even taken their clothes off for an excuse to be intimate, or embarrassed themselves trying to beg for it with methodology disguised as flirtation, and the still air doesn’t stink of sex. It’s almost enviable. He would be jealous, if he didn’t love them enough to be happy for them, even if it’s a bittersweet happiness fringed with hurt.

Whisper, gazing adoringly up at Claire, does eventually catch Slinger’s scent despite the herbal fragrance, as there is a lack of an ocean breeze obfuscating it all with salt and rust - the the window is closed.

"Mm?"

The wolf sits up slowly, grunting beside the howler monkey, blue eyes narrowed not out of threat, but curiosity and a general propensity to squint, adopted over years of sniping, this piercing gaze - an unknowing glare - seeking the ocelot with unnerving, unintentional intensity.

“What is it, love?”

Slinger is gone by the time Whisper rises and eases the door open to search for him.

“Someone there?”

She sighs, and shuts the door properly, this time, then has a smile ready for when she turns back to Claire. “No."

The howler monkey sips her herbal tea, eyes following the returning wolf, towering and muscular in a curvaceous, rugged way.

They'd be enemies, in the wild, at their basest natures.

Here, they are civilized, and they love each other openly.

This is the thing Slinger desires more than anything else.

Whisper carefully lays down, again, chuffing and nuzzling for affection. Her tail hits the bunk with a muffled, rhythmic thudding as Claire’s fingers lose themselves in untied tresses, a proud mane tumbling over olive shoulders like a curtain of silk, molten biscotti.

Minutes pass like this, two women enjoying the peace, the closeness.

“Kiss me.”

“Kiss me…”

“Please,” murmurs the wolf, rolling onto her back.

“Alright. Where?”

“Everywhere.”

The howler monkey grins, sets her cup aside, and bows, as if in worship, wandering lips.

"Claire. Oh, Claire."


	4. Burial in an urn, unboxed

Whisper scans the darkness through a lens, absentmindedly stroking her partnered Wisp.

On a particularly lengthy operation that has kept the Diamond Cutters from the comfort and security of their base for several days, now, they’ve taken shelter in a partially collapsed warehouse to bide out a little time to rest themselves. The ambience comprises of a musty smell, a constant dripping sound sourced from a burst bend in a pipe overhanging a mossy corner, toppled shelves, crushed crates, misty panes of shattered glass that admit dusty moonlight, and the conversation they make for themselves in secretive undertones to avoid detection from mechanical patrols or flesh and blood threats.

Smithy and Claire sometimes argue, but it’s affectionate, intimate, never really much of an argument to begin with. They’re having a tender, soft-spoken dispute about something trivial whilst doing their respective parts setting up a camp for the night, laying out sleeping mats that are thin yet insulated from the leeching cold of the cracked concrete.

“Like an old married couple still in love,” Slinger quips for the umpteenth time, having gathered up the least damp among the planks, preferably the smaller, lighter pieces, stacked neatly in his cradling arm.

The wolf doesn’t like it when he says that. She should, in that she’s socially supposed to. But she doesn’t. She’s just good at smiling appropriately and saying nothing suspicious.

“Mind the splinters.”

“I will, sweetie.”

“Ugh.”

He thus returns, depositing additional kindling to the makeshift campfire with a sigh, dusting himself off before melodramatically flouncing into a nimble sit, playfully prodding Mimic, who scowls, producing pathetic sparks with an uncooperative lighter.

"What."

“You worry too much.”

“Don’t bother me,” mutters the octopus. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“But I got wood,” replies the ocelot.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Disgustingly pretty, eh.”

“No, just disgusting.”

“Okay. And you’re mean.”

“Now he gets it, folks.”

The howler monkey wins the hardly-an-argument with a finger delicately scratching the underside of the lion’s chin. His masculine, rugged features soften in fond defeat and her gentle face wears a look of motherly supremacy. Their masks are hooked to their belts. Their Wisps are close by, playing a similar game.

“No, like, extra mean.”

“Fine. It's been a long day, I'm tired, and this damn lighter won’t do the fucking thing it's supposed to.”

“Here, let me try it.”

“Oh, so you’ll just magically do it right, make me look like an idiot."

"Uh, yeah."

"I don’t think so.”

“Mimic."

"I'll get it."

"Don’t be difficult. Give it here.”

“Fine, fine, take it.”

“Thanks.”

“Not like it’s gonna make any dif-”

The spluttering ignites a flame as easily as can be done.

“Huh?”

“Ta-da.”

“No way.” A moody huff. “That’s bullshit.”

“I’ve got trigger fingers, baby.” Finger-guns prod the air. “Pew, pew.”

“It's not even… Just…” The infiltrator shakes his head, tentacles bouncing with the motion, and sighs. “Give it here, Jesus…”

“Oh, you still want it back?” The marksman pouts. “It’s not, y’know, tainted by me and my sheer skilfulness, now, is it?”

“I’m not sure, Slinger. It’s pretty, though, even if halfway useless to me.”

“Damn. You are super rude, right now, grumpy old-”

“Don’t.”

One man half-amusedly, half-sadly, returns the lighter to the other, its owner, who sullenly pockets the offending item within his cloak, blushing darkened pigmentation.

"Fucking…"

“What’s the special word?”

“…Thanks.”

“For what?”

“…For the help.”

“Attaboy.”

Blue snoozes in their partner’s rubbery, cool lap, leaving Cyan to gaze deep into the fire, hovering beside their partner’s cheek, entranced by the flames like they’ve never seen such a phenomenon, before.

Playing lookout means Whisper doesn’t have to pretend. She needn’t smile, her mask over her face, cloak gently tucked around her Wisp that purrs faintly, nestled against her firm, warm belly and thighs, emitting an orange glow that she keeps hidden behind the section of broken brick. She’s bent within a hole in the wall, her battered old rifle Wispon at rest beside herself. Feeling the heat lick softly at her back from afar, she shrinks further to avoid her position being given away by the encroaching, flickering light.

“Wish we’d brought marshmallows,” Slinger remarks.

“Humph.” Mimic strokes his Blue Wisp with something motherly and fatherly all at once. “Yeah.” Careful not to let the suckers on his hand cling too hard to that luminescent, cuboid little creature. “Would be nice.”

"Hey, you hungry?"

"A little."

“I’ve got some of my rations left if you want.”

“No, thanks. I have my own.”

“You sure?”

“Mmhm.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I know. But I've been saving mine for myself. You know you should do the same.”

"…Whatever, man."

Claire begins untangling knots in Smithy’s mane, and he curls up at her boots, allowing his huge body to finally rest, unable to purr under her nimble fingers, but wishing he could. His eyes slowly flutter shut. He grunts sleepily as she talks to him.

Although gifted with excellent night vision and a keen sense of smell by nature, the scope tracks heat signatures and gives the wolf readouts of distance, elevation, all whilst the surrounding mask keeps her face at a comfortable temperature and filters the air. She perceives no threats out there, in the dark ruins beyond.

"You don't even want a little choc-?"

A sudden cry echoes in the night air.

The Diamond Cutters and their Wisps are all wide awake, silent and stiff, staring and waiting for something to happen for several seconds after the cry has ended. Screams and bellows and even laughter and singing, they’ve heard it all in their ruined world. Many survivors fall victim to the robot patrols, the opportunistic, and even the insane. But there’s something eerily animal to this outcry, something that echoes deep inside their bones, speaking to their primal selves underneath the clothes and manners. Still, most of them don’t understand what it means.

“…What the hell was that?”

“Fox.”

The ocelot blinks, eyes wandering the foggy windows, the gaps between shelves. “Fox?”

“Fox,” the wolf repeats. “Actually, no. Vixen.”

“Vixen?”

“Female fox.”

“I know what a vixen is, but why’d she scream like that? Damn.”

“Is she in trouble?” asks the lion, gruff and serious, his massive hand protectively laid upon the howler monkey’s back.

“No.”

“She certainly sounded distressed,” the octopus drawls, fingers on the hilt of his sheathed knife, sounding a lot less spooked than he looks. "You sure?"

“Yes."

"Then, what-?"

"Was a mating call,” Whisper interjects.

Moonlit pools widen with disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Mmhm.”

Smithy huffs quietly, eyes downcast. “Jesus.”

After assessing the sombre, tense expressions around himself, Slinger erupts in muffled giggling.

"What's so funny, asshole?"

“Here we are, so freaked out, over a booty call."

"It was a scream."

"It's hilarious.”

“Hard to believe people still use those,” Claire murmurs. “Mating calls."

“You oughta call 'em booty calls, mommy.”

“Oh, please, dear, behave yourself.”

Mimic sighs raggedly. “In this fucking day and age, apparently so.”

“Well, I guess it’s not like you can just hop onto a dating site and advertise your goods, yeah?” The ocelot shrugs, grinning. “Hell, girl’s gotta be lonely.”

“She’s being foolish,” says the lion, slowly relaxing against the howler monkey, who is flushed under his arm. “With Eggman’s robots about, she’s endangering herself, giving away her location like that.”

“Hell, daddy, a girl’s got needs.”

“Slinger, dammit.”

“Not to mention the bandits. Scavengers. Gangs at war, claiming fucked up territory, scraping a kingdom for themselves. Those robot-apocalypse cultist freaks and their refurbished Eggman tech, screaming about their fat, aging man-god like he gives a fuck about them,” the octopus mutters with an androgynous huff, his bottomless eyes swallowing the firelight, petting Blue until the Wisp relaxes in their partner’s lap, gazing adoringly up at him, the dark hue of his skin, firelit. “And any assholes just looking for prey, in general.”

A moment of silence, then.

He’s alluringly mottled and shimmering as his pigments communicate amongst themselves, a vaguely oily sheen travelling his body, rippling, tentacles writhing with agitation. He’d been ready to take on a more fearsome appearance in self-defence, an inwardly timid creature at heart, but gradually relaxes himself, returning to his typical appearance, albeit his mane still communicates openly what his calming mannerisms do not. None of his teammates are even sure if this is his true face and form, or just another disguise.

“Good thing we’ve got a sniper,” is the eventual concession, with a quiet, airy little laugh.

“Quite.”

“Hell, I’m just wondering if ol’ wolfy over there’s getting hot under the collar.”

“Ah, who’s practicing speciesism, now, hmm?”

“Oh, shuddup.”

“I don’t have a collar, anyway.” The wolf's voice, husky and gentle, comes out mildly distorted by her mask.

“Bet it’d look good on you, though.”

“Studs n’everything.”

Slinger giggles, wafting his face with a hand. “Makes a man all giddy just thinking about it.” A sly look, askance. “Eh, Mimic?”

“Piss off.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“It’s just my camouflage."

"Nuh-uh."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Why should I? We all know you've got a crush on her."

"Wipe that grin of your dumbass face."

"Make me."

Mimic snarls, and feels a pang of regret at the way it makes the other man flinch.

“Relax. Goddamn. I was only-"

“Boys.”

“Tch. Sorry, daddy. I'll leave him alone. Moody bitch.”

Claire and Smithy share a look. It seems that the banter becomes more strained and readily antagonistic by the week, heavy with a multi-layered tension, sexual, romantic, and something else. Something that troubles them. An effective team needs cohesion, but there's the heat of friction, wearing them down.

The ocelot does most of the talking from then on, the wolf the least, the octopus tending to the crackling fire as if prodding a body at a funeral and hoping it'll get up, the howler monkey raking her fingers through the lion’s mane, until another scream tears their world apart, the cry of a lonely vixen willing to risk her life for companionship.

“…Damn."

It's surprising to them all that Whisper is the one to break the silence first.

"She’s horny as hell.”

Slinger splutters at those dirty words spoken in such a deadpan undertone, Mimic smirking sullenly beside, Claire leaning on Smithy's back and sharing a sigh of relief with him as the situation diffuses, somewhat.

They attempt to return to normal.

Eventually, after some thought and self-encouragement, the octopus reaches into his rations and produces crackers, timidly offering a few to the ocelot, an odd, awkward attempt at a peace offering.

The howler monkey and the lion share each other's warmth, eyes following their playing Wisps with parental delight tempered by years of war.

"Uh, here, take some."

"Hmm? Oh, nah."

"You don't…?"

"No, thanks. All good. Got my chocolate, here, see."

"'Kay. You want some water?"

"I've saved a little of mine."

"Oh. Right."

The wolf's belly rumbles. She looks back into the room, just then, drawn by the talk and scent of a pathetic meal, and inadvertently catches sight of an expression, magnetized by her clinical, unblinking blue lens.

Mimic's dejection as Slinger proceeds to ignore this peace offering entirely after casually, suavely rejecting it, directing his chatter to the Cyan Wisp.

"Can I have some?" Whisper hears herself ask.

That expression vanishes too quickly to be a natural transition, replaced in self-defence by an attractively unimpressed scowl, moonlit pools darting over to gaze sensually, seductively, even, in this overcompensation of an actor who isn't sure who he really is, unearthly eyes lingering upon the sniper's mask.

"I'm starving n'I ate mine earlier."

"Sure," comes the eventual drawl, but that beak curves upward in a brittle smile. "Here."

The wolf rises, her Wisp in her arms, and lopes over to the sitting octopus, who holds out his rations to her. The exchange is made. A brushing of claws and fingertips. 

* * *

“Claire.”

Amethysts peel open, suddenly, jarringly, and they are the defeated eyes of prey, gazing upon the angelic face of a predator caught dreaming, wide and wetly burning.

“Claire…” Whisper is warm and close, shifting sensually within the rustling sheets, huskily murmuring a dead woman’s name with affection and longing still very alive. “Claire… Claire…”

Tangle swallows back the lump in her throat and carefully sits up in bed, so as not to wake her lover and disturb this sweet dream. Runs a calloused hand over a soft, handsome face. Blinks blearily. Drags fingertips down the twin trails of tears, matting fluffy cheeks. Looks over at the window.

The sunlight streams in softly, smothered for the most part by the drawn curtains, but the window is open, and the curtains are stirred by a subtle breeze like the ribbons of a dancer, so sometimes this smothering is interrupted and the light shines on through, strong and befouled by floating specks of glittery dust and loose hairs.

She listens to these murmurs, witnessing another old cycle that means nothing but feels poignant just then, silent herself save for the struggled breathing of holding her peace.

“Claire…”

That name hurts so much.

The wolf nuzzles her pillow as if able to smell skin, tongue slithering sinuously out of a fanged, vaguely smiling maw, lapping at fabric as if to part fur, a beast of burdens, seeking.

The lemur doesn’t begrudge her lover this tender fantasy. After all this time, after everything that’s happened, she knows it’s one of the few reprieves from the regular nightmares that Whisper can have, because it’s not working, otherwise.

Falling asleep in a hug, only to wake howling at a forgotten face – Tangle’s face – and biting the friendly arms until they bleed – Tangle’s arms, bleeding – and apologizing upon recognition of the person and what was done to her – Tangle, offering this embrace, arms bloody – until those apologies devolve into unintelligible tears and more hugging that just leaves the both of them to sex or silence because neither of them can sleep, isn’t working as intended.

“Claire…”

The lemur chews her lip, empathetic, suffering alongside and yet alone, which makes her feel so selfish.

All the kindness in the world, and it’d still be torture to listen to the wolf speak that name in this tone in their bed, admitting without even realizing what she’s admitting to – that that she’s still in love with someone else.

This truth is something Whisper would deny valiantly if asked, but Tangle doesn’t ask, because that’d be so cruel. Let the wolf dream, is the sentiment, and pretend nothing’s hurting when she wakes up. This is better than the howling nightmares and bloody arms.

“Claire.”

The lemur steps into slippers and rises gently to go and make coffee and sit alone in the kitchen and try not to hurt too bad, coffee going cold in the cup, picking at the scabs on her arms. They itch, from time to time.


	5. Unfit

“Morning, handsome.”

Tangle turns and smiles from over her shoulder, eyes bright and no longer bloodshot, one calloused hand tossing scrambled eggs about in a pan, the other holding a fresh, hot cup of coffee. “Hey there, gorgeous.”

Whisper guiltily slinks further into the kitchen. She’s trying to seem innocent, but her bodily language doesn’t do a good job of lying, her tail between her legs, managing a feeble wag at its tip, even as she grins softly, fanged, whilst nosing the air. “Smells good.”

The lemur’s tail keeps itself busy so as not to fidget, reaching for the spice rack without its master having to glance at said task, the silky, stronger than steel tufts bending like thickset fingers, knowingly brushing over the faded labels of recycled bottles long unread, traversing three spaces along until plucking out a jar in particular.

The wolf lays her large, clawed hands on her lover’s lithely muscular hips, nuzzling into the heat of rich scents more delectable than even the prospect of food to a canine, cold, wet nostrils blasting hot air into a slender neck.

After adding a little sprinkling of dried and crushed herbs with deft motions despite the sheer size and strength of the limb, Tangle’s tail then returns the jar to its place and, with a wiggling of those finger-like tufts, playfully dips to greedily squeeze the ample meat of shapely buttocks.

Whisper giggles huskily, muffled, nuzzling deeper, drawing slow circles over hips with claws built to carve them open, dragging her tongue and teeth over fragile fur and skin. Not a request for sex. Just overcompensation. Pretending that the dream didn’t happen. That everything is fine. That she only loves this woman, alone, exclusively.

“That’s my girl,” the lemur murmurs, grateful for the effort, returning to the pan with a swallowed sigh, keeping her hands busy, all three of them, as the wolf laps and nibbles on a pulse line. “Mm.” Gradually, Tangle becomes flushed, a sad, lazily lopsided smile softening her handsome features. “Babe.” Not a request for sex, at first, but sex is inevitable, and she kneads that buttocks more urgently as arousal unsurprisingly takes command of higher faculties.

Whisper feels the tufts on her rear releasing, squeezing, releasing their grasp, squeezing tightly again. One set of her predatory claws begins wandering, slowly ascending beneath the hem of a baggy tee-shirt to access the narrow torso, dragging over soft belly fur and knotted abs, riding a ribcage until cupping a pert breast, not as large and heavy as her own, nipple gently pinched between sharp, curved keratin.

A shudder, a faint gasp. “Take me.” A hasty grab for the dial on the stove to turn the heat off so breakfast won’t be ruined. “Now. Fuck.”

A low, throaty growl, buried in flesh. “Good.” A squeeze of the breast in a large hand. “I want you.” Another palm, dragging downward, inserts itself beneath the hem of baggy, masculine shorts and probes the swelling, damp heat of womanhood between long, slender legs. “Where?”

“The table.”

“ _Grrrmph_. I fucking love you.” And it’s true.

“Love you, too.” This is also true. “You big… bad…”

No more words are required. The words tend to get sillier in the heat of passion, anyway. Neither of them is very adept at flirting, let alone dirty talk.

The lemur feels so light and ladylike as the wolf easily scoops her lover like a bride, mouths churning together into one moaning, shared breath, bare olive feet padding stealthily over the tiles until a fluffy back is gently, yet firmly laid out on the table in question, and a ladylike noise escapes the seal of their lips, intermingling with hungry growls upon being mounted.

Tangle doesn’t consider herself especially clever or wise, but she’s no fool, and even as she allows Whisper to do all these things to her, for all their performances, despite how deeply they do love each other, the lemur knows what the wolf will refuse to admit outside of sleep.

Whisper is still in love with someone else.

Tangle just has to dutifully ignore it, most of the time.

* * *

“You two need to get your shit together.”

“My shit’s together, daddy, dunno about him.”

Mimic hates being lectured. But it is Slinger’s smirking jab that garners a cold, hard look, and cold, hard words. “You arrogant little–”

“You wanna go, honey?”

“I’m so sick of–”

“Boys.”

They flinch beneath that towering figure, that thunderous tone.

“Pay attention.” And Smithy didn’t even yell. “I’m not finished, yet.” He never yells. The masks transmit voices crystal clear even in the midst of conflict, and he is aware of how fearsome he can be. He makes a point of never raising his voice. “That scene you made, back there, almost got Claire killed, and it was because of your lack of cooperation.”

Ashamed, now, the ocelot lowers his gaze, removing his treasured beret from his head.

The octopus folds his hands on his lap, closing his eyes modestly.

They'd never meant for this to happen.

One man wants to love and be loved, but doesn't know how.

The other man is trying his best to survive, but he doesn't know how.

“It’s obviously a problem between the both of you,” the lion continues calmly, in his deep, gentle voice, fatherly gaze roving between his men with reluctance to dispense discipline, but his shoulders are squared with righteous anger as their leader. “Fix it. Talk, fuck, I don’t care what you do, but fix… this.”

Slinger bites his lip, glancing at Mimic, whose eyes remain closed.

“This bickering and resentment isn’t just unpleasant for everyone around you. It’s unbecoming of us as a whole. And it's become a risk."

Whisper is with Claire in another room, keeping her company, tending to her wounds, the Wisps bringing things they need and sometimes things they don’t, an assortment of everyday items and scrap interpreted as toys to help pass the time, always graciously accepted by the women.

“For god’s sake, we’re the Diamond Cutters. We’re an elite anti-Eggman unit.” Smithy tenderly lays his massive hands on bowed shoulders. “But more than that, we’re a family.” 

The octopus’ eyes open.

The ocelot sighs.

“For the good of this pride,” the lion concludes, smiling kindly down on them, “and for the good of our cause, sort this shit out. Alright.”

"Alright."

"Alright…"

"Daddy."

"Ah, that's it."

"I thought you hated being called that."

"Hmm. Well, I'm beginning to rather like it."

Mimic trembles with the effort of containing the urge to scream.

Slinger winces, recalling hurtful words, but grins up at the larger feline.

"Come and see Claire. That's an order."

"Will do, daddy."

"Good man." Smithy pats them gently, then departs to check on the women.

The ocelot waits for the lion to step out of easy hearing range, then turns to the octopus. "Hey."

No response.

"He's right. As usual, huh."

Still, no response.

"Listen. I'm sorry. About everything. Yeah, you're a dick, but I'm an ass, so…"

Moonlit pools follow with superstition and suspicion alike as an elegant hand presents itself for a shake.

"Let's start over, yeah?"

An octopus is a cunning creature, and even when fumbling, he sees this as the only way. "…Fine."

Slinger beams as Mimic awkwardly takes that hand.

"But we're not fucking again."

The ocelot's smile dims. "Okay. If you don't wanna, then that's good with me, yeah."

"Good." The octopus lets go quickly, after a single firm, calculated shake.

Silence, then.

"Well… I'm gonna go check on Claire. You coming?"

"In a minute."

"Alrighty." Slinger replaces his beret upon his head, pushing off of the metal pillar he'd been leaning against, striding briskly after Smithy.

Mimic watches, sneering at the man's slender back.

Thus concludes a ceremonious compromise, an outward acceptance of a peace offering, entirely necessary to survive, for now.

But what next?

What to do, what to do.

_I've been careless._

They've all gone, leaving only one to judge.

_Letting myself… feel, like this. So superfluous and wasteful and tiring, tedious. I need to get rid of it. As for them…_

They've all gathered, leaving only one alone.

 _This pride._ _Our cause. I've fucking gone and let them love me. And they think… They assume I…_

The silence is too awful.

“This is bullshit,” the octopus mutters. Trembling. Quiet. He didn't want to shake hands. He wanted to scream.

Slinger does apologize, and Claire indicates for the tall man to bow, kissing his cheek.

_You all have the wrong idea about me. Always have. This is something… I never faked._

The gesture is echoed by Whisper, her swiping tongue drawing out differing sets of giggles.

_It wasn't my fault. I never meant to pretend. I don't care. I'm in it for the money. I was straightforward from the goddamn start. You’re all so…_

The scene makes Smithy smile, but he glances at the entryway, hoping to see that eldritch beauty standing there, sneering and awkward, finding only empty space.

"Fucking stupid.” Mimic clings to his own thighs, stooped over on a pile of cinderblocks serving as a seat.

_What the hell will I do? Dealing with myself, and them, and…_

The Wisps fly happily about the makeshift medical ward, until one notices their partner is still absent and breaks away from kin to find him.

_Don’t guilt-trip me into loving you, into giving a damn about the mission. Acting like I'm a hero, like the rest of you. I don't. I'm not. It's a lie I didn't tell any of you, you bunch of sanctimonious… I need a solution. I need to survive._

Blue floats on the periphery, watching, unnoticed, hesitating when they'd usually fling theirself eagerly into the arms of their partner.

Mimic hastily rises, picks up a loose brick, and almost throws it at a foggy window.

This Wisp in particular hates violence, but has obediently served their partner as a weapon for years.

"Don't be ridiculous, what the fuck." He stands there, like a statue, ready to inflict some property damage with tears in his wide eyes. “What the hell's happening to me?"

Blue doesn't know.

"I’m a mercenary. I'm a goddamn professional. I survive. I’m here to get paid, and that’s it. That’s all that matters. Why am I so…?" A shameful word, inside - _upset_.

There is no reply from the cosmos.

And he has a thought, just then, slowly lowering his arm, the brick in his hand slowly lowered in turn - _I mustn't forget._

The Wisp softly, anxiously warbles to theirself.

_And in remembering, always... I can work with this. Pretend. Profit. Until I can't live with myself, anymore, let alone with them. Then I'll go. I'll leave them behind. Somehow._

Blue wants to help.

He still trembles. Still, does not scream. Cannot see for himself the wild look of a cornered animal in his eyes, left with only one uncomfortable shape to assume that will be convincing enough to escape, this time.

But they're only a Wisp.

"…I'll be fine."

Finally, Blue braves the distance, gently approaching.

He feels a warm, soft pressure on his chest. Blinks, spell broken, and looks down. “Oh. Uh, hey, little one.”

The Wisp warbles questioningly, concernedly.

“No, no, I… I wasn’t…”

Three eyes, gazing up at him.

“It's nothing.” Slowly, he lowers his hand, letting the brick fall gently to the floor with a less than satisfying thud. “I’m a fucking professional. I was just… It's nothing. See? I'm fine.” Smirks, a cruel, beautiful expression. "C'mere."

That boxy body fits so neatly in cradling hands, Blue suddenly cupped, lifted before a predator's beak.

“I’m no crusader. Mm?”

The Wisp blinks.

“And I don’t belong to anyone.” That beak clenches, smirk deepening into something more indulgent.


End file.
